


Better If I Stay

by benniebebbie



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage Proposal, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Near Death Experiences, Nonbinary Character, Sibling Love, Snapshots, Temporary Character Death, ao3 make an nblm tag challenge, chrobin got magnets in their hands, so much handholding it's unreal y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29520633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benniebebbie/pseuds/benniebebbie
Summary: Chrom reaches out to Robin however he can.Robin always reaches back.
Relationships: Chrom/My Unit | Reflet | Robin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	Better If I Stay

There are mere minutes left to prepare for their battle on behalf of Flavia. It was a last minute decision on the part of Prince Chrom to participate, though Robin is coming to realize that such is the case with many of his decisions. His mind is made quickly, and his resolve steeled quicker still. Robin sometimes has a difficult time keeping up with him.

A hand claps down on their shoulder, and they nearly jump. "You ready?" Chrom asks, suddenly at their side. "It isn't often we get to fight without risk of death. Truthfully, I'm a bit relieved." Relief may be an understatement, if the glimmer in his eye is any indication. He looks downright giddy at the notion of a proper fight.

Robin cannot share in his excitement. Their lives may not be at risk here and now, but if they fail, then what of Ylisse? Ferox is a necessary ally. Without them, Robin shudders to imagine the outcome. Still, Chrom's overwhelming confidence bodes well, and they allow themself that simple comfort. He hasn't given them a reason not to trust his skill.

"I am," they reply after a moment of quiet reflection, clutching a fire tome close to their chest. Chrom exhales, and it sounds suspiciously like a scoff. His hand, still perched on Robin's shoulder, squeezes reassuringly. Robin turns their head to look at him with curiosity.

Chrom, however, is looking out ahead of them at the stage of their next battle. His expression is warm with understanding. "Relax," he says, smiling. "I have faith in the Shepherds." Chrom's hand falls from Robin's shoulder to gently nudge his elbow into their side. "If you're truly so worried, then stay close to me. I'll watch your back."

Robin's lips twitch upwards at the corners. "And I yours."

\--

The tent is illuminated by lamplight that casts warm red hues over Robin's face, deepening the crease in their brow. It's late; they know this. Still, there is work to be done. In days, the Shepherds will come up on a vast, expansive desert in the middle of Plegian territory. Crossing it will require careful planning and even more careful rationing to keep the troops from collapsing. Do they have enough water? Enough dried meat? Not much else would survive the blistering heat, including unprepared Ylisseans accustomed only to temperate weather.

Robin pushes a hand back through their bangs. The other taps a quill pen against yellowed parchment incessantly. If they're to survive, then a band of men will have to be sent out to gather more food and water in the morning, but doing so as far into Plegia as they're encamped is a lot like asking to be ambushed. Robin can't afford to split their numbers. It'd be suicide. They sigh, shoulders drooping.

"It's a bit late to be thinking so hard, you know," Chrom interrupts from behind them. He steps in through the flap in the tent and leans over Robin to see what they're writing. Most of their notes are jumbled in margins or scratched into corners of the map. It's difficult to read. Chrom scoffs. "I always thought you the type to have pretty handwriting."

Robin barks out a short laugh, but it's clearly forced. They don't look up from their work. "You should get some rest, Chrom," they say, as if not actually hearing him. There's a blot of black ink beneath their pen where Robin has been tapping the paper thin.

Chrom frowns. "As should you," he persists.

"I will when I'm finished."

"There will be ample time to plan our course in the morning."

Robin rubs an eye. "It isn't that simple," they retort. It comes out accusatory, a sign that Chrom is right and they ought to get some rest for the night. Robin bites the inside of their cheek, embarrassed at their own outburst. "Excuse me. I shouldn't snap at you." They feel like retreating into their own skin to hide away from Chrom's eyes. Eyes that, if Robin looked, probably weren't frustrated with them at all. Even if they had a right to be.

Chrom is silent.

"It's just… The lives of the Shepherds lie in my hands," Robin admits, sitting the pen down on their makeshift desk. They turn their head the other way so Chrom can't see the side of their face. "I will not betray the trust they've put in me."

They feel Chrom come a bit closer, tentative. His hand touches Robin's. "Then would you put some trust in them as well?" he murmurs, grasping Robin's fingers in his own. His hand is calloused. They stare, wall-eyed. After a moment, Robin brings themself to look up at his face, sympathetic and soft in the low light. "I understand how you feel, but the Shepherds are plenty strong."

Robin's stomach twists. "I know, but -"

"No arguing," Chrom says. He's smiling. "An exhausted tactician is no more use to me than a cleric with a dagger. I will not have you falling asleep on the battlefield." Finally, his hand pulls away from Robin's.

Hesitantly, they smile back. "Alright. You win."

Chrom nods. "Good," he responds, pleased with himself. "Then I'll see you in the morning to discuss our next course of action." He retreats towards the exit, and Robin watches him go intently.

"Thank you, Chrom," they say, looking down at their hand. It's uncomfortably cold now. Robin rubs a thumb over their own knuckles, tries to emulate the scratch of much rougher fingers on their skin. "And goodnight."

Chrom waves as he slips outside. "Goodnight, Robin."

\--

The camp is quiet on the day Emmeryn dies. A solemn silence falls over even the most lively of the Shepherds. Nowi sits at the base of a tree, weaving intricate wreaths from wildflowers she'd found, presumably to place over Emmeryn's grave. Her eyes are glassy and red. Vaike is, for once, helping to prepare meals instead of picking petty fights. He hasn't spoken in over an hour. Lissa is nowhere to be seen.

Robin dries their own tears and sets off towards the grave to see it for themself. It will be their second time staring down at the dirt packed tightly over her body, knowing that beneath it all is someone dear and irreplaceable.

"Chrom," they call from behind him. He's sitting cross-legged in front of her, head dipped low. His hands are smeared in dirt and dry blood, and his hair sticks up in clumps soaked through with sweat. He doesn't look up.

"Robin," he replies, flat-toned.

Robin winces, but they sit down beside him anyway. "I'm sorry," they murmur, looking over at his face. It's stained in tear tracks and grime, and his eyes droop. If Robin was a little braver, they might reach out and wipe some of the dirt from his cheek, or smooth out the furrow in his brow.

Chrom's face contorts in pain. It looks like he's biting his tongue to choke down a sob. Robin grits their teeth and musters up a little courage to tug at his sleeve. They pull him closer to their side. The message isn't lost on Chrom, who tilts his head down on their shoulder. "...Thanks."

"Mm."

Minutes pass in relative silence, and if Robin hears a stray sniff at their side every now and then, they don't mention it. Chrom sinks further into their shoulder, warm. His hair is still damp and it tickles Robin's neck. "I mean it," he murmurs, grasping for their hand. It sends a familiar jolt of electricity up Robin's spine. They glance at him. His eyes are closed, lashes bunched together and glossy, and his mouth is curled up at the corners. He has a bittersweet expression. "Thank you."

The sight makes Robin's chest feel compressed and hot. "Of course," they say, nearly overcome with fondness. Chrom hums. He pulls their hands into his lap. It is a strangely intimate gesture, and if Robin had the energy for it, they might find themself a bit bashful about it. But they're tired, and Chrom's thumb brushes across the back of Robin's hand exactly like they remember it.

They tip their head down on top of his.

\--

It's over. Chrom calls for a cease fire as soon as Gangrel's body hits the ground. The Shepherds who can stand without leaning on one another raise their hands up and shout triumphantly. "For Ylisse!" they say.

Lissa cries louder, "For Emm!" Her gown is torn and bloodied.

Robin watches them all cheer along with her, and grins. Their heart swells with pride. They gaze across the wreckage to find Chrom. Falchion is embedded into the sand at the tip, and he braces against the hilt of it to take a few breaths. Robin can see his chest heaving, but when he stands up straight to look back at them, his face lights up. Robin loves him fiercely.

They take off towards him.

Chrom catches them in an arm, stumbling backwards in surprise. Robin is laughing. They can't remember the last time they were this happy, and it doesn't matter. They don't want to remember a time before Chrom. He laughs too, like he hasn't in weeks.

"We make quite a team, don't we?" he breathes, amused. Robin stares up at him and splays their fingers out across his cheeks. Chrom's eyebrows raise. Robin hears the stutter in his breath, thinks if they listened close they could hear his heartbeat quicken, too. Impulsive, they lean upwards and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Falchion makes a dull thudding sound as it collapses into the sand. Robin pulls back with a scoff. Chrom is looking at them through round, owlish eyes. His ears are pink, and he doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands. They're hovering close to Robin's sides, like he can't decide whether or not he's allowed to touch them at all. "O-oh." His eyes dart between Robin's own, uncertain.

He looks like he might just kiss them again, when Frederick's voice breaks the couple apart. "For the Exalt!" he calls over the clamor of roaring voices. Robin spins around to look at him in the middle of the crowd. His usually stern face erupts into a giddy grin, and he holds his lance high up in the air. The silver tip glints under a blistering Plegian sun.

"For the Exalt!" the rest of the Shepherds repeat, turning the arid desert into a setting for celebration and song. Even Libra lends his voice in the chant as he heals what looks like a puncture wound in Cordelia's shoulder. She's grimacing as his fingers brush across the gash, but when her eye catches Robin's, she manages a small smile in their direction. Lissa and Maribelle are holding each other, crying in disbelief and delight. Panne squats down and helps Olivia up to her feet, curling an arm around her waist to steady her. What a strange band they make. Robin feels they could never belong anywhere else.

They crouch to pick up Falchion from where it lays before them and brush the dust off. Kneeling, they offer it back to Chrom. "For the Exalt," they say playfully, and he laughs at the gesture.

"We're long past formalities now, my friend. I'll not have you at my feet," he replies, grasping the sword at the hilt with one hand and offering the other to Robin. When they accept it, he pulls them back up. It makes them feel nostalgic for a moment. "I much prefer you at my side."

Robin doesn't let go of him. They don't think they ever will again. "If you would have me." It comes out nearly quiet enough to be swallowed by the tumultuous sound of cheering on all sides.

Chrom's eyes crinkle at the corners. Even smeared purple from sleeplessness, they're still as warm and kind as when Robin had met him.

"To the end, Robin."

\--

They watch as the man at their side mixes different ink colors together. Slowly, it coalesces into a deep shade of blue. Robin fidgets. The man chuckles, watching them out of the corner of his eye. "I hadn't expected you to be so shifty around needles," he comments. His face is turned towards a pair of leather gloves, worn thin from overuse. "You ever been zapped by a thunder tome before? It's a little like that, but less life threatening." He shoves a hand into one of the gloves. Robin's expression sours.

"That is _not_ it."

The man simply hums in response, clearly unimpressed. Somehow, that does little to calm their nerves about the situation. They decide to drop it in favor of making conversation. "I'd never heard of this custom before," they admit with an indignant huff. The tattoo artist's eyes shift up towards them. He quirks a brow.

"Seriously?" he asks, sitting up straight. He stares at them for a moment, and then shrugs. "You aren't from Ylisse, are you?"

Robin blinks. "Plegian."

They expect to be met with shocked discomfort, or outright scorn, but the man doesn't seem to react at all. He hums, dabbing the tip of the pen into a glob of ink. "Makes sense." It's thick and shiny where it sticks to the needle. "You still haven't told me where you wanted this, you know. Unless you just want me to put it on the same shoulder as the Exalt."

Robin thinks, tries to imagine themself with the same marking as Chrom. It's a strange thought to them, even after having the customs behind it explained to them in detail (albeit _after_ their marriage ceremony had already come to an end). Robin understands its meaning now: a means of acceptance into the royal family, a part of the unification process. But that only makes it all the more daunting. Is Robin fit for such a role? Were they ever meant to be more than a commanding officer in a bloody war? Or is Chrom's endless faith in them misplaced somehow? They perish the thought.

Robin wants to do this right, without any regrets. They recall how it had felt to be at Chrom's side in each and every battle, to stand on equal footing with him no matter the circumstances. If getting the Mark of the Exalt tattooed on their body is supposed to be a visual representation of the two coming together as one, then Robin ought to see it that way as well. They want more than to be Chrom's partner; they want to be his other half. Barring their desire for peace across the continent, that is all they've wanted for a long while. "No," Robin finally asserts, staring down at their hands in their lap. "Chrom's is on his right shoulder. I'll have mine on the left."

The artist exhales, pleased. "Of course," he replies, scooting closer. "Gimme your arm." Robin complies easily, without even bothering to voice a complaint about the plainness of the order. So much for being royalty.

When the door opens, Robin nearly jolts, but the man holds their forearm in place. Chrom comes striding in in a rush, and when he sees that they haven't actually begun, he lets out a sigh of relief. "I'm not late then," he says warmly. Robin rolls their eyes.

"Barely." They can't hide the endearment in their voice.

Chrom snorts out a laugh. "You know how Frederick is! Once he starts talking about responsibility and knighthood and whatnot, it's impossible to get him to stop," he teases, leaning down towards Robin with one hand braced on their shoulder. He noses into their hair. "But I'm here now, aren't I?"

Robin's eyes fall shut. "Mhm."

In seconds, neither of their hands are free. One is cupped between Chrom's own, resting on his knee where he's taken a seat beside them. The other is stone still against the arm rest, so not to disturb the tattoo artist's work. They grimace, uncomfortable at best in a position where they can't move at all. Chrom seems to pick up on it, and talks to fill the space. Robin is eternally grateful for it.

"Emm told us about this when Lissa and I were kids. She said that it was a sacred ritual, reserved only for those we loved most," he explains, and the last part comes out a little sheepish. It's unbearably sweet. His thumbs rub small circles into the back of Robin's hand. He glances down for a moment, and then back up. "I think if she was here, she'd be proud of who I've chosen to spend my life with." His voice is blisteringly sincere. Robin would kiss the life out of him if they could.

\--

"You reckless fool," Robin snaps as Chrom fades back into consciousness. He smiles up at them weakly, blinking the spots from his vision.

"Good morning to you too."

Robin is far from amused. "Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?" they go on with a scowl. Chrom's eyebrows scrunch up. He looks a little hurt.

"Not particularly," he says, and when he tries to sit up, Robin places a hand against his shoulder and presses him back down. He huffs a breath out through his nose, exasperated. "I'm fine, Robin. Really."

A tense, uncomfortable silence falls between them. Chrom stares up at the thin fabric of the tent instead of at them. Every now and then, it looks like he wants to say something, but he never does. Instead, after minutes of sitting quietly, Robin does it for him. "I was scared," they whisper, reaching for his hand. It feels as real as ever under their own, warm. Their thumb finds his pulse, a reminder that his heart still beats, and they allow that small comfort to keep them from breaking down. "You don't know what it felt like to hold you up when you collapsed."

"I…" Chrom blinks. "I suppose not."

Robin's face contorts, choking down tears that burn the backs of their eyes. "You went limp in my arms," they murmur, recalling the weight of his head rolling onto their shoulder. He'd been held up by Robin desperately hooking their arms under his own, and falling to their knees when he became too heavy.

The scent of burning flesh had been thick enough to make bile rise up in Robin's throat. When they looked up, crazed and broken, Chrom's killer had stood before them. Robin can't remember their face, or their shape, but they remember the scratch of metal as they unsheathed their sword. They remember the feeling of burying it to the hilt in the stomach of another person, and the rushing of blood in their ears as they screamed and cried and cursed the gods.

Robin bites down on their tongue to keep from succumbing to a grief they have no need for. They screw their eyes closed. "There was no time to mourn for you," they go on, steeling themself to continue. "You had stopped breathing entirely… I was certain I had lost you for good." Chrom's hand escapes their hold to reach up and touch Robin's cheek.

"I'm sorry." He sits up. This time, Robin lets him, even if the pain of moving makes him wince. His fingertips brush across their face. The sensation is a welcome one, grounding. They nestle their cheek into his touch, raising up their own hand to cover Chrom's.

Robin's eyes fall shut. "Never again," they murmur before pressing a kiss to his palm. "I won't see you fall before your time is up, my love."

Chrom's side and a great part of his back still throb from the lingering sting of an electrical burn, but he swings his legs over the side of his cot to lean close to Robin's face regardless. It's ruddy and dirty and their bangs are sectioned in sweaty chunks. His forehead touches theirs. "I have no intention of dying anytime soon," he replies, voice soft. Robin's fingers reach back to run through the hair at the nape of his neck, and Chrom sighs contentedly. "Will you trust in me to keep my promises?" His thumb brushes away some of the soot under their eye.

Robin laughs. Their breath tickles his nose. "Always."

This is the part where, if Robin had a little less self restraint, they would smother his face with their own. They'd kiss every perfect inch of it until the two of them fell into a heap of tangling limbs, and then maybe, _maybe,_ Robin would be satisfied, certain that Chrom was solid and breathing.

They settle for tracing the outline of the mark on his shoulder.

\--

The sight is grim, and horrifically familiar. Chrom isn't unaccustomed to the sight of tombstones. Not anymore, not after seeing countless innocents die pointless deaths. Burials were commonplace during the war, even after their most successful missions.

This.

This is different.

The stone is ornate marble, polished to a glassy sheen. Carved into it is the Mark of the Exalt, and a name. Chrom reads the name over and over, thinks for a moment that it may change if he stares at it long enough. _Robin,_ the stone reads, in lovely, wiry cursive. It can't possibly be right. This is a sick joke, or a month-long nightmare. So why is he shaking? Why do his hands tremble incessantly at his sides? "Robin," he breathes, kneeling down. A palm touches the tombstone. It's smooth, and deathly cold. "Do you recall the weeks leading up to our battle with Validar?"

Chrom sits down on the ground before them, cross-legged. His fingers lock together in his lap, and he stares down at them wistfully. "You came up with the plan to trick him into believing me dead… Yet it was you who nearly backed out of it." Something west of a laugh makes its way out of his mouth. It is a bitter sound. "I remember how afraid you were to hurt me, even kill me if your focus broke, but I was never afraid of you." His face contorts with a mixture of sorrow and agonizing nostalgia.

"I would put my life in your hands a thousand times more if it would bring you back to me, my friend."

Footsteps approach from behind him. "Don't tell me you're giving up already," Lissa says, taking a seat beside him. Her gown splays out around her knees, bunched up in the dirt. She doesn't seem to mind. "That's not the Chrom I know."

He looks at her. She's smiling comfortingly, sympathetically, like Emm always did when Chrom cried as a child. She looks more and more like their older sister with each passing day, he thinks. "You're right," he says, bringing himself to let the corners of his lips curl upwards.

Lissa bumps his shoulder with her own. "Of course I am!" For a moment they're younger, warmer; just kids sitting out in the castle gardens. Chrom is relaxing after a particularly rough swordplay lesson, and Lissa is there keeping him company, pointing at the clouds to exclaim what unusual shapes they make if he simply squints hard enough.

And then, all at once, they're in the present again. Lissa's head turns back towards Robin's grave. Her expression sours, a crease forming in the middle of her forehead. Silence creeps between them for a long while, until finally, Lissa goes on, "They're out there somewhere. I know they are."

Chrom wants nothing more than to believe in her, as he always has. He wants to trust her intuition with every ounce of his being. He closes his eyes, imagines what Robin would say if they knew he was doubting her. They'd scold him for thinking such grim thoughts. They'd tell him that a grief addled king brings no hope to his people. He can hear it so clearly when he tries, like seeing the vague outline of a cat in the clouds Lissa pointed up at as children. He allows himself to feel a bit relieved.

"I hope that you're right," he says.

\--

The thing that lulls Robin back into consciousness is a concerned voice. "Chrom, we have to do _something_ ," it remarks. The voice belongs to a young woman, they think. They feel they recognize it somehow, but a muddy haze of sleep has yet to clear from their head. Another voice responds, and this one is familiar in a completely different way. Robin knows it as well as their own, intimately. The two people before them speak for a moment as they blink the darkness from the corners of their vision.

The sky is nearly blinding, but the shapes leaning over Robin are all that matters.

"I see you're awake now," Chrom says, with a fondness that breaks Robin's heart.

This can’t possibly be real.

"Hey there." Lissa's eyes crinkle at the corners when she beams down at them.

Certainly this is Grima’s cruel design, one final trick of the eye.

"There are better places to take a nap than on the ground, you know." Chrom, ever the same kind man he always was, kneels down to help them up.

The dead can never come back to life.

"Take my hand."

_Right?_

Despite themself, despite any persisting doubts, they reach upwards without so much as a moment's hesitation. Spectre or not, Robin could never refuse Chrom. Neither in life, nor in death. And, blessedly, when they grasp his gloved hand, it is solid in their own. He pulls them up to their feet, close to him. They stare between his eyes, searching, but they don't search long. "Welcome back," he murmurs, and the breath that brushes Robin's cheek is real. It must be. "It's over now."

They press a palm against his chest and feel for whatever semblance of a heartbeat can be felt through layers of clothing. Then, they look towards Lissa, who's giggling at their side. "I…" Their voice comes out scratchy from disuse, like Robin has simply been asleep for far too long, and not tangling with the reality of their own demise. "I'm alive."

Chrom scoffs. "You're alive." He cups Robin's face in his hands. Somehow, they feel like it's been both ages and the briefest of moments since he held them like this.

They could cry, they're so damn happy it hurts. "Chrom," Robin croaks, throwing their arms around his neck. Chrom responds in kind, hugging them as close as he can. He laughs, a loud, joyous laugh that comes from deep in his belly, and all at once, Robin's feet lift off the ground.

"Robin. _My Robin_ ," he says, spinning them in a circle like he did on their wedding day, giddy with overwhelming delight. They laugh too, head tipped down on his. It's as natural as breathing. "I missed you so much." Chrom looks up at them, a drop of water in the desert. He could drown in them, could be pulled under the weight of deep gray eyes, and that'd be just fine.

Lissa tugs on both of their sleeves. "I missed you too, you know!" she teases, bouncing excitedly on her heels. After a moment, Robin’s feet touch solid ground again. Lissa is beaming, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Her cheeks are pink, warm under the beating sunlight, and she presses her hands to her chest like she’s marveling at a work of art. “It was never the same without you around.” Her lip quivers.

Robin tips their head at her, endeared beyond reason. They extend an arm away from their body in offering. “I didn’t forget about you, I promise,” they reply, and Lissa, without missing a beat, pushes herself in between Robin and Chrom. She flings an arm around both of their sides, yanking the two of them as close as possible. Robin chuckles, hugging her back.

She rests her chin on their shoulder, and her hair tickles their nose, but they don’t mind it much. Chrom stares fondly at them both, patting Lissa’s back. “I’m so happy you’re finally home,” she says, sniffling. Robin smiles. Their insides feel like the first snow of a season, powdery and light.

They look out across the field. It’s the same as it ever was. The town that they first followed Chrom into battle is still standing off in the distance. Smoke rises from a chimney here and there, dissipating into unburdened skies. It’s quiet, peaceful, a snapshot of a Ylisse bled and died for. Robin breathes in, tastes the fresh spring air like they haven’t in years. All the while, Chrom watches, relief washed over his features.

By any stretch of logic Robin can conjure up, they should be dead and buried. There is no reason to believe this isn’t some twisted mind game being played on them by Grima, his claws sunk deep enough into Robin that he might follow them even into the afterlife. They perish the thought, won’t consider it. Grima could never capture this feeling, not even to mock them for it. He could never recreate the perfect slope of Chrom’s nose, nor the crinkling of his eyes at the edges. No false visage of Lissa could ever match her radiance, not the apples of her cheeks, pressed up on her face with a blinding smile, and certainly not the bounce of wild blonde hair over her shoulders.

No. This can only be the work of Naga’s divine grace. Perhaps she has blown them a kiss from her place in the heavens, blessing Robin to live again. It will be their third and final life, as well as the only one not manipulated by the whims of fate or prophecy. Robin resolves not to waste it, and leans back to take in the sight of their most precious companions for the first of many times to come.

Their best friend and husband, the love of their life.

And their little sister, a light in even the darkest of places.

Robin sighs contentedly. “I’m happy to _be_ home.”

**Author's Note:**

> yeah 3h is new and shiny but *gestures to awakening* i like this
> 
> i'm late to the party as usual, but i desperately had to get this out of my system. apparently i just can't stop myself from writing either exclusively rarepairs or getting very invested in long dead fandoms. oh well.
> 
> if u actually stumbled upon my work and got this far, then u might as well leave a comment... right? i'm starved for validation
> 
> twitter is @lesboba if ur interested. i talk about fe a lot


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